CoCo's Anthology - by Zid - "Through a Darkened Pane"...

by ziddina 45 Replies latest jw friends

• 

  ziddina

  Okay.... I'm not sure about the relationship between these three posts, but they seem vaguely related...

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  CoCo's post #7087, page #14...

  It's only natural to be curious about the folk who inhabit your life from afar. On occasion there is the rare, inscrutable one.

  An old lady passes by my home daily. I peer down at her elderly yet still somewhat spry frame from my drawing room window. Without any variation in routine whatsoever, she stops dead at the same spot - a little break in the waist-high stone wall - and leans into the smoothly cupped-out hollow. Her midriff and elbows rest upon stone polished by wind and water come from the sea. Her chin sits solidly in her upturned palms. Given the angle of my window relative to the depression in the stone wall where Madame resides, I have no difficulty ascertaining her stance.

  What does she gaze upon so intently each day, from noon till one o'clock, whatever the weather? Beyond the surf there lies a plump and verdant island and, farther still, the open sea. Does she patiently but futilely await a love long ago lost at sea? Perhaps she watches the sky in the hope of being taken unto her deity's warm and protective embrace. Is she, therefore, awaiting something or someone, or is she simply wiling away the time, longing to escape the mainland and adopt the barbaric tribal life on that mist-enveloped tropical isle?

  I am as perplexed as I am curious but do love a mystery. I shall be content to spin a yarn or two at the old dame's unwitting expense. Heaven forbid I should go down to the wall, make her acquaintance and - when the time is right - ask her to explain herself.

  She and her story could very well cease being extraordinary....

  CoCo's post #7201, page #22

  From my window, I look out upon the street below. There goes my dandy friend, Gottlieb Furioso, Esq., his gait brisk, his temper insouciant. I wonder what efforts he will go through today to maintain his person clean and proper ... I espy an old man about to cross my comrade's path....

  An overweening sense of self-importance and the necessity of preserving an immaculate outward appearance prevented the young dandy from initially lending the old man a helping hand.
  
  The elderly gent, ambling along the bumpy cobblestones sufficiently well till one of his ill-fitting shoes caught its toe in a mild depression in the otherwise smooth path worn lustrous by centuries of pedestrian and horse-drawn cart passage, took a forward tumble, landed in a bedraggled heap and let out a tiny yelp that bespoke an expected discomfort but an unanticipated assault on the pauper's innate dignity.
  
  Not so much a heart inured against the suffering of the lower classes as principally a congenital awareness of propriety and decorum about a suave gentleman's look was young Gottlieb Furioso's unspoken but deeply felt concern. Surely, the younger male was schooled in the universal laws of beneficence, particularly that of noblesse oblige. However, the inopportune soiling of his pale doeskin gloves was sufficient reason for restraint and discretion in deciding what looming circumstance amongst the ever-present needy of the world was one of extreme need as opposed to a situation of far lesser gravity.

  CoCo's post #7239, page #24

  They are here, darkening the entry to my hallowed home.

  At first meeting, some two months ago at the town square, I took them into my heart, these newfound friends. They were, I was certain, that rare breed who shows a genuine concern for the weight of one's words. I have always felt myself to be an excellent judge of character and reader of the heart.

  My irrational but, nevertheless, substantial fears and misgivings over this recently acquired relationship with the old couple have been realized. The once cheerful aspect of my beautiful home has grown opaque, a dark and murky atmosphere bleeding muddily into every room, spreading like deadly contagion from floor, to wall to ceiling. The brooding, pestilential pall has insinuated itself into my cherished home. It has sickened me and the children, not only physically, but likewise in spirit and soul. Who or what has brought this disease upon us?

  The intruders. No bolted door holds them back.

  (and I didn't find any more references that appeared to be for this story, as far as page #28... Gotta get off again - damned lightning!!!)

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• 

  ziddina

  Man, I just finished the chores and kicked this creaky old computer's butt for about half-an-hour to get all my screens up, and now the thunderheads are gathering AGAIN...!!!

  Maybe I can finish it - only 6 - 9 more pages of the original thread to go.... Fingers crossed....

  And with this post, we're apparently back to the "House on the Hill" story....

  CoCo's post #7322, page #24...

  I am pulled as a moth to the flame. Yet, there is no warmth, no light as from a flame. Darkness has seeped into my soul and consumes me. There is no redeemer ...

  Though the dark house on the hill won't reveal her exact location to me [is her existence only in my declining state of mind, a floating mirage that toys playfully but cruelly with what few shreds of my questionable sanity remain?]. I am ambivalent regarding this unrelenting draw to an entity whose domination over my servile soul has unhinged me. An entire year of anguish, all for naught, so my more practical self admonishes. Curiosity has become compulsion, a ridiculous and deadly drive to learn what should not be wittingly learned. A lethal affliction.

  It was difficult to conceal from my other more objective, discerning side my feigned, casual indifference when given a pair of Bushnells by a friend. My surge of enthusiasm for discovery up close and personal was keen. This hideous dwelling has mocked, distracted and disturbed me mercilessly.

  I walk to the promontory, binoculars in hand and put them, trembling, upon the bridge of my nose. Focusing in on the darkened pane, all I had wanted finally - at long last - to know comes sharply into view.

  Why, my dear Lord, couldn't I have trusted in you and cast aside the things of darkness? It is too late.

  There is no redeemer....

  CoCo's post #7325, same page...

  Immersed in shadow, though the blazing blue sky is without cloud, the massive dwelling compels me to accede to her unspoken but very real demands.

  I cannot put down my glasses; they are glued to eyes red and weary but forced to stare in close-up detail the growth of this hideous cancer of wood, stone, glass and whatever evil bond holding the disparate pieces in place. An energy unfamiliar to me has seized hold and will not relinquish its purchase upon my frantic, captive soul. Now, inexorably, I am beholden to the one Father said steer clear of, him whom in nightly prayer we beseeched our Lord to deliver us from.
  
  I am convinced that he dwells there (try as I may to deny the reality of this sordid fantasia) as the Chernabog who made my impressionable 10-year-old self shudder in my then naive innocence while inhaling Disney's masterpiece of music and image.

  Innocence is long gone, and culpability - guilt by association - has entered into the room of my heart and soul, and, still, I cannot look away....

  CoCo's post #7328, page #25

  Mesmerized. Tantalized ...

  By what I was taught never to dwell upon lest the desire become rooted in my heart, lead me into temptation, subject my soul to eternal death. Now, however, I look upon death face-to-face and a trigger of pain and stubborn forgetfulness wells up within me. I am choking uncontrollably as my once bleeding heart (I thought the conscious decision to abandon the musing upon things of heartbreak would forever bar their reentry into my vulnerable mind) is rent anew. Whether real or imagined, I am too shaken and confused right now to say for sure, but something in the evil tableau before me has triggered a remembrance of a long-forgotten event, one submerged in the shallows of my subconscious mind.

  I have seen once again - in vision? - the young blond couple who were crying over the deceased Raggedy Andy, prone upon the bed in the room at the top of the stairs. The contorted face upon the doll-like figure was that of Andrew James Vincent.

  I am Andrew James Vincent.
• 

  ziddina

  (Okay, this post is vaguely related to the "House on the Hill" story, but is either a refinement of previous thoughts or a side-branch of the narrative... I guess????)

  CoCo's post #7345, page #25...

  Freezing rain has begun falling, but I am certain it is localized.

  I attempt to gaze skyward and do see the sun shining its usual cheer above and around the cell of dirty weather that has caught me unawares. Shelter from this onslaught of a capriciously unleashed arsenal of pummeling ice is absolutely nonexistent. I cannot move. Feet frozen suddenly to a roadway that only moments ago had radiated a promise of summer's imminent warmth, the legs that adjoin to trunk, to arms, to pounding head, compose a corporeal entity that truly is my body but no longer a live body. Nevertheless, in my death-like state, I am fully aware of a distant sight that forces my undivided attention. Contained within the same surging and intensifying microcosm of turbulent weather is a malignancy of wood and stone upon a deadened hill, a cancerous growth of what would be thought a product of man's design and construction.

  It is not of man.

  Whatever it is, it has commandeered all my faculties and has begun its darkly spiritual penetration into my inner recesses, private places I once believed hidden to all but God. What is this force that seeps through my once impenetrable barriers of religious devotion and iron will? What laughing evil twists me gracelessly upon a rusted skewer and pulls my insides out, leaving me dead but painfully sentient to a demonic torture that simply would not happen in a nice neighborhood like mine?

  (And this one appears to be a similar beginning, but takes off in a slightly different direction, too...)

  CoCo's post #7377, page #27...

  THE HOUSE OF PANE
  Tonight's sunset is as spectacular as any I had ever viewed from the kitchen window in my former, beloved home-sweet-home.

  A tiny abode it was compared to my current habitation. No longer within a mere four wooden walls of plain aspect and diminutive scale, I now am lost in a seeming infinite architectural spread that reaches toward earth's four points, an edifice of four expansive levels that demand I walk, climb, explore every one of thousands of hidden nooks and crannies. I am compelled to do this but find no joy in discovery. I want to go back, go back to the simplicity of my earlier life. I cannot.
  
  It is becoming dark out of doors, a furtive, watery sun having limped its pathetic course through the closing chapter of a gloomy and damp spring day. Its brief, craven appearance has created more shadow than illumination, and this has tended toward my unease, prompting me to turn on each light of every room on all floors. I am alone - sometimes it is all right to be alone - but not at this time. This dwelling space of loss and loneliness holds me captive and I want only to walk out the door and go home. I can never go back.

  I have been locked up within. No one hears my cries for help. They are swallowed down whole by the grinning and cruel emptiness of an outwardly beautiful home that has no soul so has stolen mine.

  No one hears my cries for help. They are growing fainter.

  I am silent as I watch the sun sink deeper and deeper into an eternal night. It is beautiful.

  It is beautiful....

  (And I think this might go with the "House of Pane", above.....???)

  Upon sleep's threshold, he stares languidly, vacantly above at a blackened ceiling that swirls in a descending counterclockwise motion.

  The dark mass bides its time in an incremental downward slide toward the total obliteration of the bed's hapless victim. He feels no pain, though captive limbs and trunk are rendered motionless by strangler vines come creeping insidiously up through rotted floor boards. The atmosphere in the filthy chamber is heavy and suffocating, pressing down oppressively upon a man already in the throes of a gradually rising panic. He should never have allowed the pernicious beauty of this bad house persuade him stay.

  Unable to open his mouth - whether to scream, whether to allow some little intake of a rapidly diminishing supply of air - the derelict manor's young lord is engulfed by regret and sorrow over matters left too long unattended, hence, unresolved ...

  No other human is present to hear the pitiable young man's deathbed lament. Servants and family and friends knew when to leave.

  So, too, God....

  (OOOO!! Tatiana on the original thread posted this pix - page #27... I think it fits pretty well here...)

  
• 

  ziddina

  CoCo's post #7499, page #30...

  The garden path of decaying brick winds in serpentine fashion through a bed of roses so colorfully vibrant that I am incredulous to discover that these fashion plates have no smell. This incongruity of beauty minus the expected trait of floral fragrance puts me off. I am in a zone of altered reality by so simple yet unexpected an unnatural phenomenon. Maybe the old olfactory is out of sorts and my sniffer's simply out of joint.

  No, my senses - all of them - remain keen. Something is terribly wrong in the secret garden of this old house so very far off the beaten path. I wandered over here while performing my daily, nocturnal amble from the family home on Hernandez Terrace to what has become the discovery of a property somehow earlier missed. How missed I can't say. I know every boulevard and avenue and street and back alley in town. So I thought.

  Perhaps not. Something's missing here. I don't know what it is, but I have a prickly feeling I'm about to find out. Walking so late at night has never before caused me the slightest unease. Suddenly it occurs to me that, despite a near total darkness, I have been perceiving all along a rich tapestry of deeply hued flora.

  Tonight ... this night is singular for the strangely still mood of a neighborhood once so familiar to me. There's a dense atmosphere, a palpable heaviness that wafts gently around me, then cuts like a dull knife down my center. I raise my eyes toward a sky that goes from velvety smooth, deep purple to undulating waves of a steadily blackening expanse that is dominated by the staring eyes of a dark moon ...

  (Again, not sure if the following post belongs here, but I think that the reference to a "darkened pane", means it fits here...)

  CoCo's post #8792, page #34...

  The mullioned panes of the decrepit, enclosed front porch are losing their putty.

  Old and brittle, the once binding and malleable compound falls out in hardened chunks, exposing random glazing points. Andy Vincent runs his finger along a split vertical of the window frame and rudely encounters one of the tiny metal points, its endeavoring valiantly to maintain the loosening hold of the dirty pane by offering defensive resistance to the intruder's sliding strand of flesh ...

  An unseen hand wipes away long-embedded grime from the pane through which an asthmatic Andy peers, numerous streaks notwithstanding. Sufficiently clear that the boy spies a neighborhood child sauntering about, taking his time, gazing nonchalantly at the pale yellow blossoms of sour grass run amok in pavement cracks and spilling, too, over old concrete retaining walls.

  Buster Tennant is a dreamer - he does no one any harm ...

  He is a slacker and, at 10 years old, that is an intolerable character flaw, Andy reflects, now glaring through a steadily darkening pane....

  (Aaaand.....)

  CoCo's post #8797, page #35.....

  Odd lengths of two-by-fours, an old orange crate, an opened tuna can with a candle stub inside, dismantled baby buggy wheels, rope, nails, baby-blue house paint: all the disparate parts put together to form a kid's soap box racer.

  The Blue Angel.

  Andy has more imagination than skill with hammer and saw, but, surely, if he had attached wings, The Blue Angel would fly. Where he got the name is unknown. He was certainly unacquainted with La Dietrich's early celluloid classic. He tooled around the hills of Los Altos and enthusiastically pulled his beloved cart up the steep avenues even when his lungs were bursting and menacing an imminent shutdown.

  Buster was watching from below, at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Miles Street. Andy raced on down from the crest of the hill, rope steering wheel pulled taut in his grimy, hot hands. Hurtling downward with increasing velocity, Andy grabbed hold of the emergency brake (a length of one-by-two nailed adjacent the back left wheel) and, with screeching and burning rubber filling the otherwise quiet neighborhood air, he came to a zig-zagging halt at Buster's feet.

  Andy looked into the lazy eyes of the ten year old and asked,

  "Want a ride?"
• 

  ziddina

  CoCo, I've posted some notes at the end of the other thread - I'm going to post a brief synopsis here, too...

  A few comments and suggestions, if I may...

  Please think of this thread - and the other thread[s] - as WORKSHEETS...

  True, they're a testament to your talents, but... I'd like to see you do the following:

  Start using Word. I really felt the limitations of using this website as a "worksheet"; the inability to go back and edit posts past 30-minutes time is fine for a chat site, but limits the ability to edit and clean up text, errors, insert new text, and so on...

  In Word....

  1. Make a story outline. Think of it as the 'skeleton' which will give all of your stories a cohesive 'form'.

  2. Make a section for the "backstory". Every "story" has a "back-story", and you'll be pulling from this "back-story" to inform the readers of the whole picture, as the story progresses...

  3. Make several sections following your actual text, one for character development (the characters' back stories), one for a selection of names to use for characters, one for location information - the 'lay' of the land, color and appearance of the surroundings, time of year, climate, flora and fauna, and so on..., and perhaps a section for future story ideas. (Your writing is such, that new ideas seem to spring up within every written section - that can be a GOOD thing, if you put the new ideas 'on file', and stay on-track with your original story/narration...)

  ---

  Happy Writing, CoCo!!

  Zid

  ---
• 

  compound complex

  Thank you so much, Ziddy Dear!

  I have just now perused your latest entries and am grateful because these latter ones were tentatively lost to me (not found in my hardcopy MSS). I could tell you what inspiration of the moment inspired each post: Buster Tennant did get a disastrous ride in The Blue Angel; the large home of four stories and no soul was a house sitting job, so, too, that with the serpentine path and odorless roses; the house on the hill I see everyday on my walk; "So, too, God" - regarding the hapless, captive victim upon the deathbed - uses then recently acquired information on the life of Branwell Bronte ...

  Your suggestions are most welcome as I truly was at a loss how I might "join" the disparate pieces. WORD is the best way, but I had encountered some problems with the transfer; the electrifying and tantalizing risk of writing directly on JWN, however, has always spurred and inspired me. Creating stories apart from this forum - my muse, my catalyst - has been, to date, futile.

  I'm going to copy out your directions and employ them!

  With gratitude,

  CoCo